The Shining City (7 page)

That terrible wheezing paroxysm overcame Octavia again. Rhiannon shrank back, unable to help herself. The soldiers shifted from foot to foot, their boots squeaking.

Octavia managed to catch her breath. “Two weeks‟ lodging,” she repeated, wiping her eyes.

“Och, it‟s a clown, this one. Two weeks‟ lodging! No‟ at the Sorrowgate Inn, my love. Finest inn in town, we are, and that handful o‟ coppers only pays for supper and a bed for one night.

Tomorrow ye‟ll be sleeping on the ground and gnawing dead rats‟ bones, if ye canna get me any more coins afore then.”

Rhiannon said nothing.

The pendulous jowls slowly stopped their wobbling, and all her flesh thickened and drew down until her mouth had once again disappeared. Octavia pushed her bulldog‟s face very close to Rhiannon‟s. Her breath was foul. “And if ye ever smart-mouth me again, my girl, I‟ll smash your teeth in for ye, do ye understand? Or hang ye up for the rats to gnaw on.”

Rhiannon nodded, trying not to lean away.

“Ye say, „Aye, ma‟am,‟ and ye say it right quickly.”

“Aye, ma‟am,” Rhiannon said, and Octavia at last stepped away. Rhiannon took a deep breath.

To her dismay she realized she was trembling. She hoped no one else had noticed.

Methodically Octavia went through the pack, noting all of Rhiannon‟s belongings and

laboriously writing them down in a thick ledger attached to her counter with a chain. When she wrote, she stuck her tongue out one corner of her mouth.

“One longbow; one quiver; one dozen arrows, green fletched,” she said. “One dagger, silver; one boot knife, with black hilt. One blowpipe, one bag o‟ barbs, standard Yeoman issue.” Octavia looked up and stared at Rhiannon expressionlessly, then returned her attention to the ledger, her pale tongue once more protruding. “One water pouch, one whetting stone, one tinderbox, one large flint. One embroidered shawl. One gold brooch, running horse design.”

She took out a little painted box, lifted the lid, and listened for a moment as it tinkled a pretty tune. “One music box,” she intoned, the quill scratching against the paper. “One silver goblet, crystal in stem. Mmmm, very nice. One silver badge, charging stag design. One gold medal . . .”

She paused as she turned it in her hand, then raised her gimlet eyes to stare accusingly at Rhiannon. “. . . with haloed hand design.”

“The League o‟ the Healing Hand!” one guard hissed.

“Dinna tell me she stole his medal,” another said reproachfully.

“And his Yeoman badge!”

“Bitch,” said the one who had spat at her before, and spat again.

Rhiannon said nothing.

When everything in her bag had been documented, including “one purse, empty,” Octavia laid down her ink-stained quill and said brusquely, “Right, then, time to strip.”

Rhiannon just stared at her.

“Strip off!” she repeated impatiently, with an expansive gesture.

“Ye mean . . .”

“Och, aye, the lassie‟s shy,” Octavia mocked. “Look at her, blushing and sighing, like a lassie whose lips are still wet with her mama‟s milk.”

The soldiers guffawed.

“Take it all off!” Octavia barked. “Now!

Rhiannon set her jaw and obeyed. Naked and shivering, she passed her clothes over to Octavia, who duly noted them down in her ledger, then shoved them into the bag, did up the straps and stowed the bag away in a crowded cupboard that she then locked with a key. Rhiannon stood with her back ramrod straight, her arms crossed over her breasts, enduring the guards‟ grinning regard. Octavia then stood and looked her over with the same overt lasciviousness, her arms akimbo, the tip of her fat tongue protruding. “Bonny lass, isn‟t she? Skin like a babe. Mmm-mmm. Better get your tongues off the floor, lads.”

Rhiannon stared straight ahead.

“Nice flat arse too. No‟ like mine, hey? Hey?”

The guards did not dare agree.

Octavia gave her hoarse wheezy laugh and tossed Rhiannon a coarse linen smock, which she hurriedly pulled on over her head. It was rough and itchy, and stank. Rhiannon wrinkled her nose in disgust.

The smell of her smock was nothing to that which assaulted her sensitive satyricorn senses when Octavia unlocked and hauled open the other door, however. The air that flowed over them was so foul that Rhiannon wrenched her wrist free of the guard‟s grasp so she could clamp her hand over her nose and mouth. The guard did not protest because he wanted to mask his own nose.

Octavia reached forward and seized Rhiannon‟s hands in her own hot, unpleasantly damp hands, dragging them away from her face. Rhiannon gagged. In that moment of weakness, Octavia grabbed her thumbs and forced them both into a metal clamp that she tightened cruelly and then locked. Rhiannon shrieked and jerked her hands away, but it was too late. Her thumbs throbbed painfully.

“Well, in ye go, girlie. I hope ye enjoy your stay,” Octavia said, wheezing with pleasure at her own wit.

Rhiannon did not move, staring into the room beyond in horror. The room was dim and smoky, lit only by the sullen glare of a single lantern. Vague hunched shapes moved in the gloom, staring back at her with eyes that gleamed white and glassy.

Octavia unhitched her cudgel and slapped it into her palm.

“Get in there, girl,” she said.

Still Rhiannon did not move. Her legs felt weak and trembly. One of the soldiers gave her a shove in the back and she lurched forward. Octavia grabbed her by the neck, lifted her, and flung her through the door, tossing a blanket and a wooden bowl after her. As Rhiannon landed on her knees on the filthy, freezing floor, she heard the door slam shut behind her and the key grate in the rusty lock.

L
ewen sighed in impatience and frustration. Lady Fèlice de Valonis of Stratheden turned and smiled at him in sympathy. Of all the apprentices who had ridden to Lucescere from Ravenshaw, she was the one who had grown closest to Rhiannon. A small, slim girl of sixteen, Fèlice managed to look fresh and pretty even with her crimson velvet riding habit crushed and travel stained, and her long brown curls ruffled.

Beside her Cameron MacHamish rolled his shoulders and cracked his knuckles, needing some kind of physical outlet for his emotions. Flanking Fèlice on the other side was Rafferty MacKillop, the brown-haired son of a clockmaker. These two young men were always vying for Fèlice‟s attention, as much now by habit as by inclination. So when the young lady had declared her intention of accompanying Lewen to the prison to seek news of Rhiannon, they had both naturally decided she needed their protection, even though Fèlice said she felt quite safe with Lewen as her escort, with a laughing glance at his strong, tall figure.

The other apprentice-witches had gone on to the Theurgia as planned, though it was clear Landon would have much preferred to accompany Lewen and Fèlice than escort the other two girls, Lady Edithe NicAven of Avebury and Maisie, the shy, plump daughter of a village cunning man. Edithe had been most annoyed to have been abandoned by the other boys, however, and had insisted that Landon at least stay with her and Maisie. So, looking back over his shoulder wistfully, Landon had obediently trailed off after the haughty young blonde. Edithe had made no attempt to wait for Maisie, who was still limping badly after being attacked by wild dogs on their journey.

It had taken Lewen some time to find his way to Sorrowgate Prison, for it was not a place he had ever had to visit before. A great dark hulking building built beside the gatehouse that guarded the Bridge of Sorrows, it was protected by a tall iron portcullis with prongs as sharp as spears.

Although the portcullis was drawn up, they had to pass right underneath it, and no one was able to help glancing up uneasily. It was all too easy to imagine it rattling down at high speed and impaling them upon its prongs.

Within was a small dark courtyard, busy with people coming and going. The smell was strong enough to make Fèlice lift her handkerchief to her nose and for Cameron to make some lame joke to cover his unease.

Now the four apprentice-witches stood waiting in a vast chamber, along with a host of other people, some carrying baskets of food and wine, parcels of clothes, or bundles of blankets. Some were obviously prisoners, manacled and flanked by guards dressed in stern grey garb. Most looked resigned. One or two wept, and one man tried to resist and was belted across the back with a heavy cudgel for his pains.

At the far end of the room was an enormous desk, where a man sat half-hidden behind towers of papers. Every now and again, he looked up and jerked his head. Another person would rush forward to plead with him to allow them to visit a prisoner or to give him their parcel and a covert coin, or the guards would drag forward their captive, who would be efficiently processed, then marched through the huge iron doors behind the clerk by two big, hard-faced prison guards.

Slowly the queue inched forward. Lewen and his friends had been waiting now for more than twenty minutes, and their anxiety for Rhiannon made the wait very hard.

There was a stir at the great iron doors that led to the outside. Lewen turned to look, as did most people in the room.

Lord Malvern entered the room, carrying his raven on his gauntleted wrist. He was dressed in a black velvet jacket over a grey and black kilt, with a plaid of the same pattern thrown over his shoulder and secured with a heavy silver badge. Before him walked a young man with a

curiously colorless and impassive face, dressed all in black and imperiously clearing the way with a long white stick. Following a few paces behind the lord were his valet, carrying one small carved box; his librarian, staggering under a great pile of books and scrolls; his harper and piper, both carrying their musical instruments on their backs; and a cheery-faced woman dressed in a brown skirt and a white apron, who was carrying an enormous basket. Behind them came six porters struggling with various trunks and cases, and two rough-clad men that Lewen knew had been grooms at Fettercairn Castle. Behind them, looking harassed, were the eight soldiers appointed by the reeve of Linlithgorn to guard the lord and his retinue. They looked more like bodyguards set to serve the lord than soldiers set to hold him prisoner.

Lewen wondered where the lord of Fettercairn had got his new seneschal. Irving, his last seneschal, had died at Rhiannon‟s hand, throwing himself before an arrow that had been aimed for Lord Malvern. This new man had the same stiff, white, unpleasant look about him as Irving had had, only he seemed about twenty years younger. Lewen wondered if it was Irving‟s son, knowing that most of a great lord‟s servants inherited their positions.

The seneschal ignored the long straggling queue and walked straight up to the desk, prodding a fat woman with his stick so she moved out of the way. He rapped on the desk to get the clerk‟s attention, then dropped a heavy purse of coins in front of him.

“My laird, the MacFerris o‟ Fettercairn, has been wrongly accused o‟ treason,” the seneschal said in a bored tone. “He has submitted to the Crown until such a time as the charges are dismissed.

He will require lodgings in Sorrowgate Tower for himself and his servants. Please ensure the quarters are clean.”

The man at the desk stared up at him with dropped jaw, then shrugged and took the purse. “Very well,” he answered and jerked his head. A guard came forward and opened the doors. The lord of Fettercairn walked forward and into the prison, disappearing from view. His retinue followed along behind him, all except Dedrie the castle healer, who paused at the table.

“I must attend upon his lairdship at once,” she said. “He is sorely tired after his journey. I will need to organize the delivery o‟ some medicines from the College o‟ Healers first, however. I will need a pass out to ensure that all is in order for his lairdship. Will ye please write one for me now, so that his lairdship does no‟ have to wait too long?”

The man frowned, and at once another plump purse plopped on the table in front of him.

“O‟ course,” he said. He scribbled on a piece of paper and pushed it towards Dedrie.

She thanked him, then turned and walked back towards the city. As she passed Lewen, their eyes met. Dedrie smiled sweetly and then stepped out through the doors and out of sight.

Seeing the lord of Fettercairn and his poisonous skeelie bribe their way into comfort and freedom made Lewen grind his teeth in fury. He seethed about it the whole time he had to wait, and when at last he was able to step up to the desk, said furiously, “Why did ye let the laird o‟ Fettercairn‟s skeelie just walk out the door? She‟s been accused o‟ murder, ye ken, and necromancy too!”

The man raised his eyebrows, and said, “Pass outs allowed in time o‟ need.”

“What need?” Lewen demanded.

“A prisoner who has been granted liberty o‟ the tower is permitted to send servants on errands for him,” the clerk said.

“Even if she stands accused o‟ murder herself?”

“I have no record o‟ such charges.”

“But—”

The clerk tapped his quill against his ink pot impatiently. “Is there something else I can do for ye?”

Lewen swallowed his aggravation. “Aye. I‟m here to see Rhiannon o‟ Dubhslain. She was